Peeking around the bow of their boat, I see them standing in the dissipating fog and starting to step toward the hole. I slap my fin against the water, making a splash loud enough to be heard across the island. It works. Both men—ridiculously dressed in baggy shorts and brightly colored floral shirts (and Courtney thinks I have no fashion sense!)—turn at the sound. I swim out from their boat a short distance before curling into a dive, flicking my tail fin above the surface as I go. As soon as I sink to the bottom, I freeze. Muffled through the water, I hear one man say, “Did you see that one?”
“No way,” the other cheers. “That’s a record breaker for sure.”
I move a little farther out and do my fin-slapping dive again. One more big splash, and then I hear their engine start up.
It’s working!
As their boat takes off in my direction, I swim quickly, fitting in a couple more dives for show. Then, when I’m satisfied that they’re far enough from the island for our safety, I sink to the bottom and watch them speed by.
I wait there for a few minutes, just to make sure I don’t draw their attention back in this direction, before returning to the island. I swim to the far side, putting as much grass and brush between me and the fishing boat as possible.
Now that the threat is gone, I’m left with the aftereffects of an adrenaline rush and racing thoughts of what might have happened.
When I get onto land, my legs are shaking so hard, I can barely keep upright. At the pool’s edge, I fall more than dive in.
Quince’s arms are around me before I can fully transfigure.
“You’re all right?” he demands. “They didn’t see you?”
“No,” I manage between terror-induced pants. “It went perfectly.”
As if he’s not content to trust my statement, Quince releases me and checks me over. Making sure there isn’t a hook in my fin or something.
“I did it,” I gasp, still reeling from the thrill and the fear. “I really—”
Quince’s mouth is on mine in an instant.
His arms are around my waist, mine around his neck. It’s the fear, I know it’s the fear. And the bond. And the adrenaline. That whole I-was-this-close-to-death-and-am-really-really-really-glad-to-be-alive emotional response. Anxiety and relief and joy swirl between us until I can’t tell which are his and which are mine. I can’t not be kissing him right now.
The urgency in his kiss tells me he feels the same.
But before my body can begin to calm, another shadow moves above us. And stays.
My heart nearly explodes in my chest.
“Well, well, well,” Daddy’s voice says from above. “I think this Challenge is over.”
Oh, no! I jerk back and stare wide-eyed at Quince. His mouth is just as red and swollen as mine probably is. I can’t even hope that Daddy didn’t see what just happened because the evidence is still visible. And all I can think is, Oh, no.
“Daddy,” I gasp, putting as much distance between myself and Quince as possible. “I thought you weren’t coming until afternoon.”
He levels an unreadable look at me. “It is afternoon.”
“Oh,” I mouth.
Daddy turns his gaze on Quince, who doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. Instead, Quince straightens his spine and says, “My apologies, sir. Your highness.”
Some sort of patronizing male look passes between them, and I feel like throwing a giant conch at his head. At both their heads.
“It was a mistake,” I hurry to explain. “See, there was this fishing boat, and we were trapped, and I made fog—just like you taught me—and then I ran back, and my legs nearly gave out, and then Quince was there.” I cast an accusing glance his way, certain that he is somehow to blame. A slow, deep breath brings my crazed babbling into check. “Our emotions were heightened by the prospect of getting caught. It was panic.” They are both looking at me with identical blank faces. “Nothing more.”
Goodness knows I wouldn’t knowingly kiss Quince for any other reason.
Right?
I have a feeling that last thought read clear as day across my face because Quince drops his gaze and then swims for the surface. I shouldn’t feel bad—everything I said was the truth—but part of me wants to go after him and apologize. I feel rotten for hurting him.
“Lily,” Daddy says, swimming down to me.
I turn away from the surface to look at him. Like a deflated life raft, I feel all my anxiety and the rush seep away. “It was a mistake, Daddy,” I explain calmly. “Just a mistake.”
Wasn’t it?
“Was it?” Daddy asks, echoing my own question. But rather than sounding regal and authoritative, he sounds just as confused as I am. “Was it all really a mistake, Lily? All of it?”
“Of course,” I say. But it is a whispered protest.
“At first, I thought maybe—” He shakes his head, showing uncharacteristic uncertainty. “But now, after this weekend…and the last…”
“Nothing’s changed, Daddy.” I swim closer, trying to plead with my eyes. “I promise.”
“I know. It’s just that I can’t help feeling that you’re not seeing things clearly. All the signs are there and—” Then, as if he just realized the funniest thing, he laughs. He pulls me into a gentle hug. “Oh, how I wish your mother were here,” he says. “She was far better equipped on the subject of relationships.”
Though I want to insist that Mom would see that this bond was ridiculous, a small part of me refuses to speak for her. I never even met her. How could I begin to know what she would say?
“Let me have a few minutes to speak with Quince,” he says. “He should have a voice in all of this as well.”
As Daddy swims up to the surface, to ask Quince for his opinion—great, now I feel guiltily for never having taken that into consideration—I float over to the pool wall. I can just imagine what they’re saying. Daddy will ask Quince what he wants to do, and Quince will confess some sort of ridiculous undying feelings for me, and Daddy will declare it a match made in heaven. But who knows? Maybe I’m holding too high an opinion of myself. Maybe Quince doesn’t want to be shackled to a mermaid anyway. Maybe he doesn’t want to be doomed to spend the rest of his life in whatever form I’m currently manifesting—soon to be almost exclusively mer—which is what will happen if the bond is formalized.
Did I even tell him about that little problem? No, because I never thought it would be an issue. I never thought we’d be in a position where the bond becoming permanent was even a remote possibility. Well, I need to tell him now so he knows what he’d be giving up.
Energized, I kick to the surface. As I burst into the air, transfiguring on the way and hoping to bring Quince over to my side of the argument, I hear Daddy say, “One week, son. I give you one week to change her mind.”
“No!” I shout, landing feetfirst on the sand and running at them. “No, we have to tell Quince about the form sharing, about how if the bond isn’t severed, he and I would always have to be in the same physical form, and once I return to take my place in court, I’ll rarely use my terraped—”
“I know.”
“What?” I snap my head at Quince. “You know what?”
“About the rules,” he says with a shrug. “About being stuck in the sea whenever you are.”
See, “stuck.” He doesn’t want to be a merman.
“Then why not end it now?” I demand, shoving against his shoulders with all my strength. “Are you insane?”
He looks at me with unwavering intensity. “Probably.”
“Daddy, you have to explain—”
“One week,” Daddy says. “You can wait one more week. I want you to be absolutely certain about what you want. At that time you will give me your final decision, by which I will abide.” He doesn’t look happy about that. “If you choose to separate, I will perform the ceremony on the new moon next weekend. That timing will make the break cleaner, in any case.”
Then, as I stand there, jaw dropp
ed and unable to comprehend how this could be happening—again!—Daddy gives me a hug, kisses the top of my head, and then disappears into the sea.
It takes several long moments for my astonishment to process into anger. Into raw fury. At Quince.
“You!” I roar. “I—This—We—” When no words come, I have no choice but to scream. “Aaargh!”
This cannot be happening.
20
I don’t speak to Quince on the swim back to Seaview. Or the ride back to our street. Or when I leave him in his driveway.
But when he follows me into the kitchen, all the thoughts and words and accusations bubbling inside me finally burst out.
“What did you tell him?” I demand.
“Lily—”
“You told him you were moon-eyed over me, didn’t you?” I accuse. “That you have loved me from afar for three years and you can’t stand the thought of being apart?”
“Now, that’s not fair—”
“Lily,” Aunt Rachel calls from upstairs, “is that you, dear?”
“Yes!” I shout up. Then, to Quince, “What did you tell him?”
He looks furious, standing there in front of the refrigerator with his jaw clenching and unclenching, his hands fisted at his sides, his biceps bulging and unbulging. I almost laugh. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him really, truly angry. It makes me feel kind of giddy.
“I told him the truth,” he says simply.
I cross my arms over my chest. “And what exactly is the truth?” I retort. “It’s getting so hard to keep it all straight.”
“I told him,” Quince says, stepping toward me, “that you can’t stand me.”
Why does that make my heart twist for a second? Maybe because it’s not entirely true. And not entirely fair. But I’m not prepared to admit either of those things.
Holy crab cakes, this bond stuff is confusing and complicated.
I prod. “And…”
“And that I—”
“How was your trip?” Aunt Rachel sweeps into the room, right behind Prithi, who takes up a position at my feet. “Did the separation go smoothly?”
I almost growl in frustration. Not because Quince was about to make his first actual, true confession of his feelings—I don’t care about that, remember?—but because…well, just because. “It didn’t go at all.”
“I don’t understand,” she says, pulling out one of the kitchen-table chairs and sitting down. “I thought you were going to sever the bond?”
“It’s a long story, Aunt Rachel.” Too long, too much for me right now. A sudden headache pounds against my forehead, right between my eyes. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers, hoping to massage it away. Prithi purrs against my ankle, as if trying to help. “I can’t deal with this anymore tonight.”
Not that Quince takes the hint.
“Lily, I—”
“I’m taking a bath,” I announce. “I’d like you to be gone when I get out.”
I don’t wait to see if he looks hurt or upset or annoyed or angry. I’m all of the above, so he might as well be, too. At least a cool key lime salt bath will ease away some of my grrr.
The water is almost ready, with pristine white bubbles piling up to the rim of the tub, when Aunt Rachel knocks on the door.
“Are you all right, dear?” she asks in that maternal voice she gets when she’s really worried about me.
I always wonder if it’s the same voice my mother would have used.
“I’m fine, Aunt Rachel.” I sit on the edge of the tub and lean down to drag my hand through the water, letting its calming energy soak into my skin. “It’s just…it’s been a hard week.”
The door creaks open, and Prithi hurries in before Aunt Rachel sticks her head through the opening. While Prithi drags her sandpaper tongue across my toes, Aunt Rachel steps inside and leans back against the doorjamb.
“Want to talk about it?” she asks.
“I don’t,” I say, but then can’t help adding, “I’m just so confused. I mean, I’ve loved Brody for…ever, almost as long as I’ve hated Quince. And I thought the blowfish hated me, too. But now it seems like maybe he doesn’t hate me, maybe he even”—I try not to gag on the words—“loves me. It could never work, I know that. But he won’t accept that. He convinced Daddy to give it another week, although Daddy was kind of wavering anyway because he wants me to figure out what I really want.” As if I don’t know. “And now I’m stuck bonded to Quince until next weekend, when I’ve only got five weeks until my birthday. Only five weeks left to make Brody fall enough in love with me to commit to the bond, or lose my claim to the throne permanently.”
There. I’ve said it all. All.
I suck in a lungful of air and let it out, feeling my anxiety whooshing out with the heavy breath. Somehow, even though I haven’t done anything but spill my guts, I feel a million times better. Like I just gave half my burden to Aunt Rachel. I hope she doesn’t mind.
She smiles and hugs her arms around her waist, her rainbow-hued peasant skirt flowing out beneath her like a ruffled cake.
“Sounds like you know what you want to do.”
“I do,” I insist. “I want to get through this week, go through the separation, and bond with Brody as quickly as possible.” It sounds so simple. Three easy steps. “Then I’ll never have to talk to Quince again.”
“Is that what you really want?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Of course.”
But then the doubts come. The memories of the moments over the last few days where Quince was almost bearable. (Okay, more than bearable.) When he was kind and thoughtful and concerned and even nice. When he didn’t act like it was his mission to make me furious. When he seemed like he might be an actual friend.
Those moments, though, were too far apart. Too late.
“Well, then,” Aunt Rachel says, pushing away and speaking in a tone that means she might be humoring me, “I hope you get what you want.”
Me too, I think as she leaves me alone with my bath. Me too.
“Meow,” Prithi says.
At least she agrees with me.
I quickly strip down and sink into my bathwater. I’m just finishing my transfiguration when the phone rings.
“I’ll get it!” I shout. “It’s probably Shannen.” I told her I’d be home Sunday night, so she’s probably calling to find out how my visit with my dad went. Of course, she thinks my dad lives in Fort Lauderdale.
“Hey, Shan,” I say, jabbing the phone into the cradle of my neck. “I was just going to—”
“It’s not Shannen.”
Omigod.
Omigodomigodomigod.
My heart bursts into a speed that even key lime salt water can’t calm.
“Brody?”
“Hey, Lil,” he says, his voice that honey-smooth texture that I haven’t heard since Friday. “Do you have a minute?”
I have a lifetime.
Okay, I don’t say that. I don’t even really think of saying that. But I feel it.
“Sure,” I say, trying to act cool—as if that’s even a remote possibility for me. “What’s up?”
Besides my heart rate.
“I had a question about our trig homework.” He laughs nervously—Brody? Nervous? “Actually,” he says, “that was my lame-ass excuse for calling. I just wanted to talk to you.”
It’s a major miracle—and because of the iron grip I have on the phone—that I don’t drop the receiver into the water. My first thought is, Why? Why, after all these years, is he suddenly calling me now? But then I shake off the doubts. Who am I to question my good fortune—especially after the week I’ve had? Especially when Quince is nowhere around to mess things up.
Calm down, Lily. Just because he wants to talk to you doesn’t mean he wants to talk to you. Act. Cool.
“Oh,” I say, curling my tail fin nonchalantly. “What about?”
He hesitates before saying, “About the dance last week. About you asking me and me…saying no.
”
“Oh?” I’m not capable of more than that single syllable at this point.
“I just wanted you to know that”—beep-beep—“I regret it. Saying no, I mean.”
Beep-beep.
“Um,” I manage. “Can you hold for a sec? I have another call.”
Beep-beep.
“Sure.”
I click over, thankful for the time to gather my thoughts and knowing that Shannen will help me calm down and figure out what to say in this situation.
“Hey, Shan,” I say. “You’ll never guess—”
“It’s not Shannen.”
Son of a swordfish. Why is this happening to me? I mean, every time I’m about to get somewhere with Brody—every time!—he has to go and stick his big blond nose into it. Well, you know what I mean.
“What?” I snap. “I can’t talk to you right now. I have—”
“I just wanted to apologize,” he interrupts. “I’m sorry for how things are turning out.”
“Fine,” I say, eager to get him off the phone. “You’ve apologized. Good-bye.”
“Wait!” It’s the desperation in his voice that stops me from clicking back to Brody. He waits long enough to hear that I’m still there before saying, “I wish things hadn’t gone this way. I wish I’d done it right. From the beginning.”
I sigh and sink back against the tub. “I do too.” Then, because I’m not completely taken by his charming side, “But that’s not exactly an option at this point.”
“I know.”
“Listen, I have Brody on the other line.” Is that the sound of his teeth grinding? “We can talk tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.” He sounds resigned. Until he adds, “You know, Lily, I don’t think he’s good enough for you.”
“And you are?” I snap back.
“No,” he says. “I’m not.”
Then the line goes dead. Why don’t I ever get to have the last word? Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve got Brody—my real future—waiting on the other line. I don’t care what a motorcycle-riding, land-loving, leather-wearing biker boy has to say about the situation.